


like a gently tapping litany

by sheepknitssweater



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 22:09:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3092648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheepknitssweater/pseuds/sheepknitssweater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is trying very, very hard not to pour scalding, mildly illegal (they were out of lids at Starbucks, which Dean wouldn't have believed was possible -- it's Starbucks, for god's sake -- before he moved to this hellhole of a city, but now he's just resigned) coffee down his front on a too-early Tuesday morning. He's got four stops to go before he's at work for the middle-of-rush-hour shift that's been kicking his ass since the day he started. Dean is thinking, maybe there is a God, and if they're out there, maybe they'll make everyone in this car leave at this next stop. Maybe they will let him have peace.<br/>Instead, the doors open --<br/>and Dean is, in one moment, jostled slightly, and in the next, his perfectly nice, never-hurt-anyone sweater (not to mention chest) is drenched in black coffee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like a gently tapping litany

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "A Poem on the Underground Wall" by Simon & Garfunkel. Thanks to Carmela for helping me find that, and also for talking me through even my most ridiculous ideas, and also for everything else.  
> This doesn't quite merit a warning per se, I don't think, but a character deals with some anxiety in this fic -- it's certainly not a panic attack, but it's not sunshine and roses, either. (This makes the thing sound Serious and Real and like a Fanfiction as Literature type shindig. Please be aware that it is none of those things.)  
> Also, I neither live in DC nor take the metro with any regularity at all, so I've probably botched some details; apologies!

Dean kind of hates D.C. He hates that his rent's way higher than it has any right to be, he hates that every single time he leaves his building he risks being trampled by an influx of rabid tourists hoping to do away with the eager young graduate student just trying to get from home to class without being torn limb from limb, he hates the goddamn presidential motorcades that always seem to come along just when he's trying to cross the street -- and, more than all those things put together, he hates the metro.

The fucking metro. About forty percent of his friends in college, it seemed, had come from cities with ostensibly fantastic public transportation systems. When he realized that it really did make more sense to leave the car with his mom for another three years if he were going to be getting his degree at GWU, a lot of them had tried to give him pointers. "Stay near the doors," advised Ruby. "No, that's paranoid," Cassie had cut in. "Find a seat. You're a six-two white dude, no one's going to mess with you." Victor had looked somewhat amused by the suggestions and somewhat pitying of Dean.

Dean is finally realizing where all the pity came from.

Because, okay, Dean's a pretty adaptable guy. When he went from run-of-the-mill public middle school to horrifyingly upper-crust prep school, it took him about a week to make more friends than he'd ever really want to talk to in the ensuing years. When he went from that to an almost embarrassingly liberal university operating in tandem with a thriving art school, he did even better. But the fact still stands: Dean grew up in Lawrence, Kansas. Which is a college town, alright, but the east coast is scary enough without D.C.'s hordes of yuppies and politicians in the making elbowing him on their way into the subway car every morning.

And the metro? Dean's pretty sure that even if he'd been born and raised somewhere that demanded he submit himself to the underground torture chamber of the subway every day starting at birth, he still wouldn't be used to it. Dean always thought he was more comfortable in closed spaces than open ones, but that was before he actually had to squeeze his way into a train with upwards of a hundred people in it before he was alert enough to react if someone did end up trying to murder him. Every single morning. The subway is deafeningly loud, it smells kind of weird, and the people who board tend to do a lot of stepping on Dean's toes without apologizing. Dean can hear Charlie's voice at the back of his head, squeaking "you're not in Kansas anymore, Dean!", whenever he takes issue with one of the demands of city living (first in Providence, now in the nation's capital). Well, okay, he fucking isn't, and he doesn't like it here, not one bit.

Dean thinks this as he tries very, very hard not to pour scalding, mildly illegal (they were out of lids at Starbucks, which Dean wouldn't have believed was possible -- it's Starbucks, for god's sake -- before he moved to this hellhole of a city, but now he's just resigned) coffee down his front on a too-early Tuesday morning. He's got four stops to go before he's at work for the middle-of-rush-hour shift that's been kicking his ass since the day he started. Dean is thinking, maybe there is a God, and if they're out there, maybe they'll make everyone in this car leave at this next stop. Maybe they will let him have peace.

Instead, the doors open --

and Dean is, in one moment, jostled slightly, and in the next, his perfectly nice, never-hurt-anyone sweater (not to mention chest) is drenched in black coffee.

Aside from being adaptable, Dean likes to think of himself as a decent person. Like, profoundly decent. The kind of decent that remembers how people he barely knows like their various caffeinated beverages, the kind of decent that means he was designated driver (and hair-hold-back-er, and wipe-vomit-off-of-face-er) for every single party he attended in four years of college, the kind of decent that makes strangers hand their babies to him while they look for their keys. There are a lot of things Dean doesn't have going for him, and there are a lot of parts of Dean that Dean kind of wants to eviscerate himself for (only sometimes, now, but they're there nonetheless), but he has this. Dean is warm, he is responsible, he is somebody you look at and think "hey, he would definitely track me down and give me back the ten-dollar bill he saw me drop."

However, his decency, just like his adaptability, is something that evaporates nigh-completely for the thirty-five minutes he stays trapped in the cylindrical prison of the subway every morning.

"What the hell," he says, not loudly but kind of dangerously, the voice he uses when he's at a bar with Charlie and guys won't stop hitting on her, a hey, buddy, no hard feelings, but I could probably kill you. I know I'm getting my masters in American literature and can sing all of "Love on Top" from memory and I'm not super gay-looking but I'm a little gay-looking, I know these things, but I've also got pretty excellent arm strength and I can shoot a gun. So, yeah, I could probably kill you voice.

When Dean looks up to see the human embodiment of pure evil who thought it was a good idea to bump into him on the metro, he's sort of shocked. This is partly because the guy whose proximity incriminates him as the offender is hot. He's got huge blue eyes and a jawline that could probably cut metal and dark hair that's messy like someone ran their hands through it and even through a thick buttoned-up coat, Dean can tell he's built. Mostly, though (because Dean is not that shallow, no matter how much evidence could be presented to the contrary), Dean's shocked because the guy doesn't look at all phased by The Voice. He doesn't even properly avoid Dean's eyes, just glances down at his soaked chest and then back at his face and stares at him like he's a math problem or something and the guy really wants to finish and get on with his day. "I apologize. But you shouldn't have had an open container on public transportation anyway," he says, and, well, that explain it -- the guy's got A Voice of his own, rough and low and impossibly deep and, okay, also really hot. Despite all this, he manages to sound prim, almost. Like, nice try, but I am the unofficial minutia police of this subway car and you have received just retribution for your crimes against the District of Columbia's public works department. Have a nice day.

And the thing is, Dean's ready to get into a full-on shouting match with this guy, no joke. He may be a decent person, generally, but this morning, he is ready to make every single person here fear him for the rest of the time he has to take this godforsaken line to work, he is ready to say something that hurts this guy's feelings so much that his stupidly perfect bone structure somehow collapses in despair. (Which is physically impossible, probably, but it's too early for Dean to conceive of something worse.)

But just as he's opening his mouth to start in on the very nerve of Mr. Make-Somebody-Spill-Their-Coffee-And-Don't-Even-Say-Sorry-Like-You-Mean-It, he's pulled back to reality by the old lady with a strawberry perm who sits across from him most days and knits. Of all people.

"Oh, dear, but he is right," she says, like the other guy can't even hear her, and she hands Dean a packet of pale pink tissues.

Just like that, Dean deflates. He's back to being Dean Winchester, Who Is Decent, and when he looks up from thanking her profusely and mopping coffee off of his sweater, the guy's slipped through the crowd and turned away.

Dean kind of thinks that'll be the last he sees of him. Maybe his car broke down, maybe he's from out of town -- whatever. But, of course, no small mercies for Dean Winchester. The next day, the train pulls to a stop at the Farragut North station, and in he walks. Because Dean is a coward, he tries, at first, to hide behind an almost worryingly tall businessman texting on a Blackberry. No dice, though. The guy from yesterday is inescapable. He glances at Dean, and despite that fact that Dean has a fucking travel mug today -- there is no earthly way to spill coffee from a travel mug -- the guy just narrows his eyes and turns away, like he's fucking offended. Apparently, Dean's very beverage-holding existence is unbearable to this guy. Fine. Whatever. Dean doesn't need the tacit approval of every hot person he sees, and anyway, Dean's still mad (he liked that sweater, thanks). He tries to follow the businessman's example and check his texts. Looking at his phone makes Dean motion-sick, but it's better than meeting the impenetrably blue eyes of the asshole again.

The next day brings more of the same, and soon enough Dean's accepted the guy into his life, pretty much, despite the fact that he still seems to glare at Dean every single day he they’re in the same car. Dean tries not to think about how he maybe puts a little more effort than usual into not wearing holey jeans, and when he does end up dwelling on it longer than he'd like to (which, unfortunately, happens a lot), he does his best to convince himself that it only matters to him because if this guy's as against open containers of coffee as Dean's decided he is, he's probably also against, like, holes in jeans, wrinkled shirts, happiness. (That last one is kind of a stretch, but Dean's mad.) Dean ignores the guy, and the guy ignores him, and they're on the same train every morning, but Dean doesn't let it bother him. No, he definitely does not let it bother him. He has more important things to worry about than a rude (albeit incredibly cute) guy he's never even properly met. Dean's in grad school. He has a full-time job. His kid brother keeps calling him from Stanford and asking him whether he should ask the girl in his math class out; his mom keeps calling him from Lawrence and asking him whether he's getting enough calcium. Dean has enough on his plate. He does not need an asshole with all the fashion sense of Columbo occupying his thoughts, not at all. So Dean decides that he's not going to think about the guy more than is absolutely necessary, and he sticks to his plan with all the zeal of someone realizing they are on the brink of something already out of their control.

It all goes to shit a month later. Dean is usually pretty adamant about keeping a good distance from blue-eyes-constant-glare guy, and, if the hostile looks Dean's getting used to are any indication, the guy takes the same precautions. But today, the car's unusually packed, and they end up, through some hellish happenstance, pressed together nearly toe-to-shoulder. Today, the guy's forgoing glaring and electing instead to just flat-out ignore Dean. Literally, he stares in the opposite direction while his body goes stiff as a board. Well, two can play at that game, Dean figures, not even allowing himself to glance perfunctorily at the guy as he's wedged in next to Dean. Still, Dean can't help but notice (with a detached, objective kind of interest, of course, not a "please fuck me right this instant" kind of interest) the warmth of the his body beneath fabric Dean doesn't know the color of, the faint scent of his soap and aftershave and something really, really nice that defies categorization. (Alright, the interest is one hundred percent "please fuck me right this instant". Dean tried.) He keeps a poker face, though, or tries to. The last thing Dean needs is the guy turning around and seeing Dean blushing like he's a fucking seventh grader at a Hanson concert all over again (he doesn't want to talk about that).

Dean sets his jaw and stares at the door and, short of thinking in earnest about things separate from the stranger standing too close to him, tries to clear his mind. He is thinking, hey, not bad, you're doing alright, Winchester, when there's a single backwards jolt, he's covered once again in coffee, and the subway's stopped.

Okay, so none of those things are good per se, but Dean figures he'll address the issues one by one. First things first: he didn't even have coffee this morning, so something's definitely wrong there, besides the fact that the stuff’s about half milk, which is, frankly, a little disgusting to him. He realizes what, exactly, when he looks up and sees the guy staring at the front of Dean's jacket like it's going to attack him, a very lidless (and mostly empty, now) cup of coffee in hand.

Dean's first thought is oh, shit. And, yes, that's partly because the fucking subway just stopped working for no apparent reason. It's a little about how hey, his coat's soaked and it's not like he's exactly rolling in the cash necessary to pay for dry-cleaning or what the fuck ever, and his chest is probably going to have a permanent burn mark in no time if this keeps up. But mostly -- fucking mostly, where did Dean go wrong in his life that these are his priorities -- his first thought is oh, shit because now Dean has to say something to the guy. Dean wants, wants desperately, to just turn away and wait out the rest of whatever the hell's happening in peace, God, does he want to, but from the looks of it the guy, The Guy, isn't going to let this go so easily. Like it isn't bad enough that Dean is inexplicably trapped in what's become one of his very least favorite places in the universe. No, the fucking hellscape isn't complete without one of the hottest people Dean's seen in his life spilling coffee on Dean. And then proceeding to stare blankly at Dean's chest for an interminable length of time.

Before he decided to leave his car in Kansas, Dean looked up stats on people dying on the metro, because he's that kind of guy. At the time, he'd been appalled by the thought of death by train derailment. Now, though, it seems like the best thing that could possibly happen to him. Train derailments are, in Dean's current opinion, vastly underrated. Train derailments deserve a lot of respect. If the train hadn't stopped already, he'd be hoping against hope for one, but sadly, he's stuck here, no getaway plan in sight, not even by way of death.

Just as the thought crosses Dean's mind that he could, theoretically, use his phone as a lever to pry the door open and escape, the guy starts talking.

"I'm -- I'm so sorry. Do you need napkins for the -- yes, you do, I'll --" It doesn't come out frantic, the way it would if it were Dean speaking; he's almost muttering, but the words are obviously directed at Dean.

Dean knows that pretty much anything he could be doing right now would be better than staring open-mouthed as the guy Dean was sure hated him searches his -- not Dean's, that is, the guy's -- bag (for napkins, presumably -- who the fuck carries napkins) and apologizes to Dean over and over again.  But before Dean can do anything, there are napkins being shoved, suddenly, into Dean's hands, and more apologies, until Dean has to say something, if only to staunch the flow of sorry's coming out of this guy's mouth. "It's, uh, it's. Fine," he tries.

The guy doesn't seem to hear him, so against his better judgement, Dean reaches out and grabs his arm to still it. That gets the guy's attention. He stares at Dean's hand like it's a particularly freaky-looking deep sea creature, and Dean lets go quickly. "Sorry. I'm, um," he says, and he knows he doesn't usually use this many filler words, and, come to think of it, he's feeling a little lightheaded. Which, great. Of course this is the moment when he has to suddenly transform into a claustrophobe. Dean's going to fucking faint in this guy's incredibly nice arms (not that that was going through Dean's head while his hand was on the guy's bicep, of course) and the subway will stop functioning indefinitely and they'll be stuck underground forever and Dean'll have to, like, fight zombies or something back-to-back with this guy. The worst thing (well, not the worst thing -- the worst thing is the fact that the train isn't moving, but besides that) is, Dean doesn't think that'd be so bad, after all. Which is weird. Maybe because the original altercation had taken place too early in the morning for Dean's brain to process information correctly -- God knows he's been jostled and spilled coffee on the subway before, and it never bothered him too much -- he hadn't been able to let it go. For weeks, he's been vividly fantasizing about telling this guy just where he can shove it, and being applauded by everyone who witnessed the original squabble, and watching the guy get down on one knee and beg for forgiveness and then maybe take Dean out to dinner as an apology and then --

Jesus Christ. Well. That sort of explains it.

The realization that Dean's been harboring some weird, twisted, vaguely John Hughes movie-esque crush this whole time hits him with all the force of the chaos rapidly descending upon the red line. No matter how freaked out Dean thought he was, it's clear about eighty percent of his fellow metro-goers have it about a hundred times worse. Somebody starts to swear with truly alarming vigor in alternating French and what Dean's pretty sure is Icelandic, and all Dean can think is, okay, I have a crush on a guy who really seems to hate me. That is, until the fucking lights go out. At that point, Dean's yanked out of gay meltdown mode and back into a public transportation-induced terror. He's on the edge of just giving up and sitting on the gross car floor and pretending he’s somewhere else, his car, maybe, his beautiful abandoned car, when there's something blindingly bright flashing into his eyes. Dean honestly believes he's in an X-Files episode for a second, but then coffee-spilling guy's appearing behind the beam. "Dude! What the hell," Dean says, before he realizes that of the very few words Dean's spoken to this guy, what the hell have already been three of them, so maybe a repeat isn't the best idea. Oh well.

"Are you alright?" He can see the guy's brow furrow, and Dean thinks maybe this guy just doesn't say sorry that much unless he's literally spilled his coffee on you. That leads to Dean thinking hey, maybe he doesn't actually hate me! Holy shit! Then he remembers the daily glaring, which puts a damper on everything. But then again -- the guy's asking if he's alright, so it might just be that --

Dean can see in the faint light from what appears to be the guy's phone flashlight that he's looking more and more alarmed. "Are you alright?" he repeats, alarmingly vehement this time, like he's ready to perform CPR at a moment's notice. It's kind of flattering.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Dean says, he isn't feeling so lightheaded anymore, and the lights are coming on (though weakly) and an intercom's crackling with somebody who sounds very, very afraid for their life (and rightfully so, probably) apologizing prolifically and promising no more than a twenty-minute wait. Of course, the newfound clarity that comes from Dean's tag-team panic being alleviated means that Dean's realizing how much he just embarrassed himself, but, okay, he can do this. Glaring Subway Guy just shined a flashlight in Dean's eyes and asked if he was alright; Dean can do this.

"Also, thanks," he adds. "I mean, for the napkins."

"I spilled coffee on you. Again," the guy responds, and Dean's pretty sure the guy looks guilty. "I’m sorry for my rudeness the first time. I was --" he starts, then seems to think better of it, and something really weird happens: the guy smiles. Not, like, a huge grin or anything, but he's smiling, sort self-deprecatingly, at Dean.

Dean uses all the self-control he can muster to keep himself from leaping into the guy’s arms.

"It isn't important," the guy continues, completely unaware of Dean's inner turmoil. "In any case --"

"I thought you hated me?" It comes out just like that, question mark and all.

The words are out of Dean's mouth before he has time to think about how, huh, maybe not the best idea to interrupt a perfect stranger's apology by bringing up up how much you've been thinking about said perfect stranger's personal opinion of you. The guy just looks bewildered. "What?"

"It's just, you always seem. You know, um, kind of pissed when you get on at your stop, and I..." Dean's voice peters out.

"That's just my face," the guy says. "Why would I -- why on earth would I hate you?" Like he's actually seriously confused, not like he's asking to make Dean feel better. It's kind of refreshing.

Dean feels an almost painfully intense blush rushing into his cheeks. "I was kind of an asshole when you bumped into me?"

The guy looks fucking bewildered. "I made you spill coffee on yourself at seven-thirty in the morning," he says.

That's kind of a good point. Dean smiles, finally. "Yeah, you did."

The guy smiles again, and this time the expression's accompanied by an eye-roll that makes Dean's chest clench uncomfortably. "I'm Castiel," he offers.

"Dean."

"Hello, Dean," Castiel replies, and Dean thinks that if he has to spend fifteen more minutes waiting for the subway to gets its shit together and start working again, he's really fucking glad he finally knows this guy's name.

 

**______________**

 

Castiel, it turns out, recently moved to D.C. from Ann Arbor to work at the National Gallery of Art. "That's badass," Dean says, which receives a slight squint from Castiel.

"I professionally curate American art. That's 'badass'?" He says it like there should be attendant air quotes, but there's not a lot of room to move around, seeing as they're stuck in a sealed subway car stopped in the middle of a random tunnel. (Really scary shit, as Dean remembers and congratulates himself for not vomiting over every time he thinks about it objectively. He should tell Cassie about this next time they talk, see what she says about the metro then.)

"Well, yeah, Cas, kind of," Dean says. He catches himself halfway through, waits for Castiel to bristle at the nickname, but he doesn't, just looks a little amused.

Castiel doesn't refer to Dean's being a grad student as badass, but he does seem interested when Dean goes off on a slight tangent about Cat’s Cradle versus Slaughterhouse-Five (it's in order, okay). They go back and forth for awhile, Dean smiling way too much and Cas smiling... not as much as Dean, but not a small amount, either, and Dean thinks that might be a good sign. They squeeze against the wall to make room for someone's child's enthused exploration of the stopped car, and Castiel doesn't seem at all bothered by the closeness. Dean looks down at the place where their shoulders are touching and he feels something thick in his throat and a stuttering jag in his chest and he thinks, oh, fuck, but not in an entirely unpleasant way.

When the intercom finally squeaks to life again and the same voice -- even more harried now-- announces that they'll be moving again now, so so so so so sorry for the delay, Dean's pretty damn enthusiastic about the prospect of breathing fresh air again, but he's also looking at Cas out of the corner of his eye, a little wary. Cas keeps going on impassionedly about Edward Hopper, and Dean doesn't want to spoil the moment, but Dean's not shitting himself here. Castiel is a guy Dean met on the metro, and yeah, they did have a kind of meet-cute thing going on, Dean's not going to deny that, but Dean doesn't even know if Castiel's into men, much less if he's into Dean. The probability that spending the stopover talking to Dean was, for Castiel, just another way to up his manly bonding small talk quotient for the day (Dean doesn't know how straight people work -- he's working off conjecture here) is pretty damn high. Somewhere in the back of his head, Dean had kind of thought that if the glare weren't intentional, the turning and staring upon entrance every day was, but thinking about it now, it seems less and less likely. Castiel probably has a really nice lawyer girlfriend named Lauren who never gets lightheaded on the subway, and that's okay. Good for him. Dean tries not to let his smile slip as this goes through his head, but he's starting to have trouble, watching Castiel flush and wave his hands around vaguely as he speaks. Luckily, Dean doesn't have to hold on for long. As the train begins to slow, Castiel's suddenly rifling through his bag again and saying something a little quickly (and this time, well, he still doesn't sound frantic, but he -- holy shit, he does sound nervous) and Dean has to stop him and ask him to repeat himself and then Dean realizes, Castiel's asking for his number. And, judging from the throat-clearing accompanying the request, it's not in a manly bonding small talk way. It's in a... whatever way. It's in an I'm asking you for your number, and I'm not providing a specific reason for why I'm doing that, so you can assume that I think you're cute if you want to way, and that is more than enough for Dean.

Dean feels like he's going to burst. He jots his cell down quickly on the receipt he finds in his pocket (Cas had no luck finding anything to write on, but Dean doesn't have time to make a crack about how the badass nature of Castiel's job prevents him from having, like, a notebook or something) with a ballpoint pen that keeps running out of ink and he shoves it at Castiel as he steps out into the echoey noise of the station and he says, "Nice to meet you, Castiel," and wiggles his eyebrows and knows he looks ridiculous but really doesn't care, and Castiel rolls his eyes and laughs and leans against the wall and doesn't stop looking at Dean until the doors close.

For the record, Dean still hates the metro. In some ways, even more than before, because now he knows that it could stop without warning at any moment (seriously, what the fuck), and because it made him late to work, and because he's gotten way more coffee spilled on him in the past few weeks than he ever really bargained for. But when Dean picks up his phone and it's Cas on the other end, Dean's really, really glad he left his car in Kansas.

 

 


End file.
